Page 14 of Such Sharp Teeth

I take another quick look at the wound, now fully exposed, free of any bandaging. A pearl of laughter rolls up from my throat and off my tongue, entering the world luminous. Up comes another.

I’m laughing. I’m losing it.

On the shower curtain, there’s the image of a kraken drowning a ship, its tentacles tangled in the sails.

I stare at it.

Yeah, okay. Monsters are real. There are creatures out there, discovered and undiscovered, named and unnamed. Just because I can’t identify what bit me doesn’t mean I wasn’t bitten.

I could continue to ponder the nature of trauma, overanalyze, drag up my past, search for connections like a basement-dwelling conspiracy theorist. But that feels like a lot of work. Like pushing a boulder up an endless incline.

Denial is hard to sustain. It requires constant effort. The truth might not be pleasant, or logical in this case, but it’s easy. I don’t need to assign myself to it. It just is.

And the truth is, I was bitten. It happened. I know it happened. That’s it.

I could go to Seth, be honest with him, but I’m pretty sure that would just punch my ticket to a psych evaluation. And even if it didn’t, what could he do? It’s not like he could treat me. I don’t think they cover monster attacks during residency.

I’ll just wait it out. I was better this morning. Maybe I’ll get better again. Maybe this is my body purging itself of germs. Is that science?

“All right,” I tell myself. “One thing at a time.”

I step into the shower. I use the fancy shampoo Scarlett set out for me. It smells like coconut. It smells so good, it’s all I care about for now.

It’s heaven to be clean.

—

After my shower, I put on my pajamas and go downstairs to search for the ointment and extra bandaging Seth sent us home with. Scarlett is awake, drinking lavender tea and painting her nails.

“Water is still hot,” she tells me. She’s stenciling a pretty pattern on her left ring fingernail.

“Thanks,” I say. “Where are my medical supplies?”

“Oh, I think I left them in the car. Sorry. I’ll get them.”

“No worries,” I tell her. “How’d you get my phone?”

“Cops,” she says. “Guess I forgot to mention that, too. I’ve been so scatterbrained. It’s not me. It’s the fetus.”

“Should put that on a T-shirt,” I say, pouring myself a cup of tea.

I sit down next to her. I want to tell her the truth, even though I know I can’t. Or shouldn’t. It’s a lot to keep to myself, a grenade under my tongue. But she’s dealing with enough.

Besides, even if I did tell her, there’s no way she would believe me. I couldn’t blame her. Still . . . I fear her disbelief. Nothing is worse than her doubt. It’s the thing that scares me most in this world.

More than fucking monsters. I laugh to myself.

“What is it?” she asks me.

She doesn’t break her concentration, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t slip up. She’s a tattoo artist, so I guess it’s a good thing that nothing can unsteady her hand.

“You okay?”

“I’m golden,” I lie.

When I close my eyes, it’s there. When I blink, it’s waiting. The crimson blaze of its eyes, the threatening gleam of its teeth.

So I keep my eyes open. I don’t blink. I watch my sister work. I watch her create something beautiful.